Full Black

CHAPTER 10

“W hat do you think you’re doing?” Luke Ralston asked as he watched Larry Salomon reach for the cordless telephone on the kitchen counter.

“Leaving a message for my office,” replied the film producer.

Ralston shook his head. “No calls. No emails. Nothing,” he said sternly as he poured a mug of coffee and motioned for his friend to sit down.

They had driven south of L.A. to the quiet coastal community of Hermosa Beach. Ralston had steered clear of the freeways and major arteries in an effort to avoid traffic cameras. He had also disassembled his cell phone so no cellular print could be made of his progress or direction. He didn’t need to worry about Salomon’s phone, as it had been left behind at the house in Coldwater Canyon.

Ralston knew he needed to get them someplace safe. It had to be somewhere they could lie low and figure out what their next move was going to be. Going to Ralston’s apartment was out of the question. Sooner or later it would be crawling with police. The same went for any of the properties Salomon owned in Palm Springs or up near Santa Barbara. For all intents and purposes, they needed to completely drop off the grid. And for that to happen, they were going to need some help.

At just after three in the morning, they pulled into the driveway of a modest stucco house with a Spanish tile roof, two blocks back from the ocean. It belonged to an old friend of Ralston’s named Hank McBride.

Hank was a former Navy SEAL in his late sixties who dabbled in a wide field of endeavors, including technical consulting in Hollywood, though he had yet to work on any of Salomon’s movies. Despite their age difference, Ralston and Hank McBride had developed a good friendship and shared many of the same friends within the small, tightly knit Special Operations community.

“How long before we see it on the news?” said Hank, who had the TV near the kitchen table turned on, but muted.

Ralston had just come back inside after having parked Salomon’s Wagoneer in the garage and covered it with a tarp. “If I had to guess the window on this, I’d say probably not for a few more hours,” he replied. The graze on the side of his head had been easily covered with a Band-Aid, but it was a serious reminder of how close he had come to being killed.

Salomon sat down and accepted the mug of coffee. “If I don’t get the studio’s publicist working on this, it’s going to be a nightmare. Just let me make one call so she can get ahead of it.”

Once again, Ralston shook his head. “This already is a nightmare, Larry. A grade-A shitstorm.”

“I know. I could be tainted by this forever. Look at what happened to Phil Spector. And there’d been only one body in his house. I’ve got-” Salomon’s voice trailed off as he did the math. “Six bodies, if you count what’s left of the one outside who you apparently parked on.”

Hank let out a low whistle. “Six? That’s pretty good.”

“Only four of them were bad guys,” clarified Ralston. “The other two worked with Larry. Speaking of which-”

Salomon suddenly realized something. “The hard drives. Damn it. We forgot to get them out of the house.”

“What hard drives?”

“From the computers in the office.”

Ralston needed him to slow down. “Let’s take things one step at a time. First, I want to know about the two men who were killed. Jeremy and-?”

“Chip,” said Salomon.

“Who were they?”

“They were working on a film project with me.”

“You said it was a documentary?” asked Ralston.

The movie producer nodded, but didn’t elaborate.

“Why was everything set up in your office at home? Why weren’t you working at the studio?”

“Because this was a private project.”

Ralston’s antennae went up. “Private?”

“Yeah,” said the producer, somewhat absentmindedly, as he stared into his coffee cup. “Personal.”

“Larry, we’re pretty good friends, wouldn’t you say?”

Salomon nodded.

“So why don’t you come clean and tell me what you’ve been up to. Let’s start with who Jeremy and Chip are.”

The producer took a sip of coffee and set the mug back on the table. He was still very upset. “They were friends of mine. Chip is a blogger and political activist and Jeremy is, or I guess I should be using the past tense, Jeremy was a film student who had teamed up with Chip to make a short film.”

“A short film about what?”

“Endowments.”

Ralston wasn’t sure he had heard that correctly. “As in financial endowments? Like at universities?”

Salomon nodded.

“Not exactly the type of summer blockbuster you’re known for, but everyone in Hollywood has their pet projects, I guess. What I don’t understand is why you were working on this out of your house?”

Hank McBride looked away from the TV and over his shoulder at Salomon. “Short film isn’t code for porn, is it?”

Ralston held up his hand at the man.

“I’m just saying,” replied Hank as he went back to monitoring the television. “Something doesn’t sound right. You don’t get a visit from a wet work team for making documentaries.”

“And you probably don’t get it for making porn, either,” argued Ralston.

“You do if the Russians are involved somehow,” countered Hank.

He had a point. Turning his attention back to Salomon, he said, “Let’s back all the way up. Is there any reason someone would want to kill you?”

The producer shrugged.

“That’s not a no, Larry.”

“The film we’ve been making might not be too popular,” Salomon responded.

“Do you think it’s something worth killing over?”

“Maybe.”

Ralston was taken aback. “Then we really do need to start from the beginning. What’s the film called?”

Salomon mumbled his response and Ralston had to ask him to repeat it. “Well Endowed,” he said.

“I was right,” said Hank without turning away from the TV. “Making skin flicks.”

“Do you mind?” asked Ralston.

Hank shrugged and went back to clicking through the muted channels, searching for any stories about what had happened at the producer’s home.

Refocusing on Salomon, Ralston said, “Was this project your idea, or did somebody bring it to you?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Well, it doesn’t look like you’re going to be going anywhere for a while,” said Hank as he stopped on a channel that was streaming helicopter footage from above a hilly, wooded area. “Your house is in Coldwater Canyon, right?”

“Yes,” said Salomon.

“Then I’d say the window for when your story would make the news just got slammed shut.”